


A Woman's Weapons

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Future Fic, Loss of Innocence, Love, Oral Sex, Politics, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Highborn girls learn to wield their smiles, their eyes, their promises, the same way their brothers learn to handle their swords, and they can wound with them just as easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Woman's Weapons

Highborn girls learn to wield their smiles, their eyes, their promises, the same way their brothers learn to handle their swords, and they can wound with them just as easily. Sandor figured that particular cruelty out long ago. Sansa used to be different, and her smiles were all honest once, but that was so long ago, and maybe he was a fool for believing it even then. Now she hands out her favours to each and every bannerman and knight - not literally, of course, he doesn't believe that she'd stoop to that (except in his most painful, fevered dreams), but she lets them believe her pretty words and promises, and there's always the hint of more to keep them dangling.

The Hound has little patience for the subtle nuances of a lady's weapons, even when that lady is wielding them skillfully in defense of her lands and her life. "Let me protect you," he wants to tell her. "Forget the rest of them - all you need is me by your side, and in your bed." Except he knows that would be a lie, and a worse one than any of the delicate little lies she has to tell. Because, much as he hates to admit it, she does need the knights and the bannermen, and she could manage perfectly well without him. Maybe better than she does now.

But sometimes she meets his eyes and gives him that little nod that lets him know she'll be waiting for him later, even when she's in the middle of leaning on some lordling's arm or laughing at another's unfunny jokes. Then he finds he's able to bide his time and hold his temper, because no matter how many coy smiles she bestows or unworthy men she lets kiss her hand, it's him she spreads her legs for, him she clings to as she peaks, him she begs for more. Then he can manage, for a little while, not to envy the handsome knights who flock around her hoping for a bite of any crumb she might drop.

Later, when Sansa's waiting for him in her bedchamber, it doesn't matter that he's not handsome, that he doesn't always know the right thing to say. She puts aside her arts and her coyness - lays down her weapons - and looks him straight in the face, and then there's nothing he can do except surrender to her. She strokes his scars, even kisses them, and whispers his name as he enters her. She wraps her legs around him as if she wants to pull him even deeper into her, and clutches him like she never wants to let him go, or she bows her head to swallow him, taking as much of him as she can into the same mouth she uses so skillfully to build her support. Afterwards, sometimes she sings for him.

Occasionally he comes to her room when she hasn't summoned him, because it's in his nature to test his boundaries every so often. When she's weary or irritated about something, she'll sometimes turn him out unsatisfied - but every so often she doesn't. He can't decide if he likes the fucking best when she's angry, when she lets loose just a little of the rage she always has bottled tight inside her, bites and scratches him and says things with that sweet little mouth that wouldn't sound out of place coming from an Oldtown whore, or when she's tired and just wants him to be gentle, maybe use his mouth on her until she shudders into sleep, and then he can get away with staying beside her for a few hours. They both have their merits, and he loves that she needs him either way.

He always makes sure he's gone before dawn, of course. It wouldn't do to encourage the rumours, of which there are already too many. The rational part of his mind tells him that he should leave - set her free to marry one of the pretty lordlings. But he's lost her before, and he knows, in his heart of hearts, that leaving would cost him his life. She's his reason for living now - she's his hope, whatever that's worth. He'll content himself with a few stolen hours, and the knowledge that she saves her lies for other men.


End file.
